


in motion

by wincechesters



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Post-Canon, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 13:47:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9744080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wincechesters/pseuds/wincechesters
Summary: Yuuri and Victor have been at a standstill, both together and apart. On the ice, moving forward is all about momentum, and it's the kiss at the Cup of China that sets them in motion.In the wake of that kiss, Yuuri and Victor learn to move forward together.





	1. Beijing

**Author's Note:**

> thanks as always to Meg for beta and for endless encouragement - ilu!!!!!! any remaining mistakes are my own. and thanks also to Ginny, who helped me figure out my summary because summaries are the worst.

Victor kisses him.

Victor kisses him and everything stops, the thundering of Yuuri’s heart the only sound in an entire arena gone still and silent in their shock. No one is as shocked as Yuuri—the press of Victor’s lips, soft and cool to his flushed ones, so surprising that he doesn’t even close his eyes, doesn’t even manage to kiss back. They seem to fall in slow motion—and the hard impact of the ice at his back feels less, somehow, than the warm press of Victor to his front, the gentle curl of his gloved hands cradling the back of Yuuri’s head as if it were made of glass.

It’s over before Yuuri even knows what to do with it. Victor is smiling down at him and he manages—somehow, with the renewed cheers roaring in his ears—to identify the soaring, too-full feeling in his chest, the heat in his face and every point where Victor touches, as wonderment mixed with joy.

It isn’t until after, when they’ve gotten his scores—and Yuuri a silver medal around his neck—and he’s changed and packed up and they’re on their way back to the hotel for the night, that Yuuri starts to wonder what it all means. He wonders if there will be more kisses and finds himself hoping there will be.

He desperately wants a chance to kiss Victor back.

Victor is the same as always, a silver-haired Russian whirlwind gusting around their shared hotel room, chattering at full speed about Yuuri’s performance, how engaged the crowd had been, Phichit’s gold medal, what they have to do to get Yuuri ready for the Rostelecom Cup in a few weeks’ time. He’s the same as always, except he can’t seem to stop staring at Yuuri, his eyes bright and hot and wondering under the sweep of his hair, and Yuuri feels itchy under his skin, the tips of his fingers, the soft wet swell of his lips when he licks them nervously, staring back at Victor.

His coach is midway through listing off ideas of how they could celebrate Yuuri’s win when the elastic band between them snaps.

“Victor,” Yuuri says, his voice cracking nervously, and something in his voice must catch Victor’s attention because he stops mid-sentence, his eyes going wide. He has a shirt in his hands, one of Yuuri’s, no doubt considering whether Yuuri should wear _this one_ tonight, since he seems to think Yuuri can’t be trusted to pick his own wardrobe.

“Yuuri?” Victor says. “What—“

Yuuri swallows hard and shoves himself off the bed, crossing the room to stand in front of Victor. He stops a few inches short, closer than usual, and Victor’s lips part around a surprised breath. The shirt hovers between them, Victor’s hands gone still with the rest of him and there’s something expectant in the way his fingers tighten in the soft fabric.

“Was it just to surprise me?” Yuuri blurts, “The kiss?” and he finds he’s afraid to hear the answer. But it’s there before his stomach has time to do more than two or three flips, there in the tightening of Victor’s brow, something almost hurt in his blue eyes. It’s gone in a moment, the curtain flipped closed to leave only casual, flighty Victor behind, the one that Yuuri has come to recognize in the man who speaks to the reporters, to his fans. He opens his mouth to retort, one hand releasing the shirt to flip dismissively and Yuuri can almost hear the tinkling, false laugh building on Victor’s tongue.

He stops it in his tracks, reaching to gently pry the shirt from Victor’s clenched hand. He tosses it over the back of a nearby chair, ignoring Victor’s protest— _it will wrinkle, Yuuri!_ —and edging in closer. His heart is pounding in his throat, and he shoves down the anxiety rising up in his chest, something triumphant and soaring taking hold of him when he sees the desperate want slip past the curtain in Victor’s eyes, a want that he’s sure mirrors his own.

This time, Yuuri kisses Victor, and Victor kisses back.

It’s clumsy at first, but Victor’s mouth is warm this time, his lips soft with the balm he keeps handy at all times. Equally warm are the gentle hands which come tentatively to cradle the angle of Yuuri’s jaw, fingers dipping into the hollow below his ear with a reverence that makes Yuuri’s breath catch. He presses in harder, his hands coming up of their own accord to cling to the broad stretch of Victor’s shoulders and he hears it—the needy, desperate sound, not quite swallowed down, that Victor lets slip before he’s pressing in tighter, their bodies slotting together like they belong.

Yuuri doesn’t have enough experience to know what makes someone a good kisser. All he knows is that what Victor’s doing feels good, the press of their lips, the gentle flick of his tongue, and he follows as best he can, opening his mouth, tentatively swiping his tongue out to meet Victor’s. There’s an approving rumble in Victor’s chest and one of his hands slips down over his back, pressing them impossibly closer together.

Neither of them seem to want to stop—Yuuri at least, feels like he’s been waiting for this forever—but eventually he breaks away to laugh, a joyous, incredulous sound that bubbles up from his chest, his lips curling in a grin too large for the shape of his mouth to resemble a kiss anymore.

He feels the smile when Victor presses his cheek to Yuuri’s, and Yuuri can tell he’s blushing hot when Victor’s lips feel cool as they press a kiss there. “What?” he asks, amused and happy and Yuuri presses his face into the curve of Victor’s collarbone through his shirt. He shakes his head, and his smile stretches wider when he feels Victor’s arms curl even tighter around him.

“Nothing,” he mumbles through his smile, into the fabric of Victor’s shirt. He lets out a sound which can only be accurately called a giggle. “I just kissed Victor Nikiforov.”

Victor pulls away, just far enough that he can look down at Yuuri and quirk a teasing eyebrow at him. “You did.” His lips twitch and then stretch into a slow smile, like he can’t hold it back, doesn’t even want to. “Maybe you should kiss him again.”

“I thought you wanted to go out to celebrate,” Yuuri teases, smiling broadly despite the flush under his skin. He’s not sure where this brazen Yuuri came from, but he’s been slowly clawing his way loose ever since Victor showed up naked in his family’s onsen.

Victor pouts prettily—truly, Yuuri thinks Victor doesn’t know any other way to pout, probably practices it in the mirror—and the expression forces an explosion of laughter from Yuuri’s chest. The pout tugs up into a helpless grin, and Yuuri steps back in to kiss the smile off Victor’s face.

“Dinner first,” Yuuri says, with a confidence he didn’t know he had, and he pries himself loose to step out of Victor’s reach. “You can have more later.”

The pout is back, and Victor whines _Yuuuuriiiiiiii_ , and Yuuri laughs, his heart and chest so full he thinks he might burst with it.

They meet up with their friends for dinner, and Victor toasts Phichit, Yuuri, and Christophe’s medals by buying the whole table a round of drinks. Yuuri sits between Phichit and Victor, across the table from Leo and Guang-Hong, which means that his face ends up on Instagram more times than it has since he left Detroit. Thankfully Victor doesn’t get clothes-strippingly drunk this time, but he does get a little tipsy, and he clings to Yuuri in a way that Yuuri kind of loves, even as he feels hot under his skin with the knowledge of how their relationship has changed since this afternoon at the free skate.

They stumble back to their hotel room, full and happy and exhausted, and Yuuri hugs Phichit—dodging Chris, who makes as though he wants a “hug” as well—before they part ways, trudging tiredly back to their separate rooms.

Yuuri showers after Victor, and Victor is already in bed by the time Yuuri opens the door, all the lights turned off. But he’s not sleeping; soft, tired eyes catch the light from the street outside as he blinks up at Yuuri. He smiles, and Yuuri wants, more than anything, to cross the space between them, to sidle into the bed and insinuate himself into those long, strong arms, to press his face into the warmth of Victor’s chest.

He remembers the feeling of Victor’s mouth on his and it makes him brave.

He crosses the room, stopping at the side of Victor’s bed. Wordlessly, Victor shifts over, turning back the covers and patting the space he’s just vacated, which Yuuri is sure must still be warm with the heat of Victor’s bare skin.

As soon as he’s slid into the bed, Victor leans in to kiss him, sudden as though he’s been waiting all night to do it—which, Yuuri realizes with a start, he probably has. He tastes like the toothpaste they’d both used after their showers, and his mouth is soft and slow and sweet as it moves over Yuuri’s. His hand finds the side of Yuuri’s neck, thumb stroking gently over the bolt of his jaw, fingers slipping into the damp strands of his hair. Yuuri doesn’t know what to do with his hands; Victor is shirtless as he always is when he sleeps, and he wants to touch everything even as he’s not sure he should. Already it’s almost more than he can handle, the heat of Victor he can feel even through his own t-shirt, the miles of warm skin and tight muscle pressed against him. He settles for wrapping his arms around Victor’s neck, curling into him as best he can on his side.

They kiss until Yuuri starts to feel hazy, exhaustion making his limbs and eyelids heavy, and he pulls away with a soft sound. “We should sleep,” he says regretfully, and Victor chuckles softly..

“Okay, _solnyshko_.” It’s an unfamiliar word and Yuuri doesn't know what it means, but there's affection in the way it curls off Victor’s tongue, and Yuuri thinks he likes it.

Victor slides his hand out of Yuuri’s hair, and Yuuri catches it as he pulls back, shyly curling their fingers together. Victor smiles, radiant even in the dim light of the city streaming in from outside, and he pulls the hand in his to his mouth. He kisses the swell at the base of Yuuri’s thumb, lips soft on the tender flesh, before drawing their joined hands in to cradle them close to his chest like something precious.

“Goodnight, Yuuri,” he says, softly.

The warmth in Yuuri’s chest feels too big to contain, huge and full and right. He turns his smile into his pillow, and squeezes Victor’s fingers tighter. “Goodnight, Victor.”

It feels like a beginning.


	2. Moscow

Their hotel room in Moscow has two beds, narrow doubles that aren’t designed for two grown men, even if one of them likes to wrap his long limbs around the other and sleep glommed onto him like an octopus whenever the opportunity presents itself.

Victor, veteran of probably more hotel rooms than he can count, rolls his suitcase up against the wall and hangs the bag with their suits in the closet before throwing himself unceremoniously on the bed nearest the door. His eyes are slits of bright blue under thick, smoky lashes as he pretends not to watch Yuuri follow more sedately into the room and collapse tiredly on the other.

“Do you want to go out tonight, Yuuri?” he asks, giving up the pretense. “Moscow is almost my second home. I could give you a tour.”

Yuuri opens his eyes as much as he can with his face smushed into his pillow and shakes his head. “I’m too tired right now. Maybe tomorrow?”

“Of course.” Victor smiles fondly at him before propelling himself out of bed with a frightening sort of zeal. “Room service, then!”

They have a few days before the Rostelecom Cup begins, time enough for Yuuri to familiarize himself with the arena he will be competing in, for them both to recover from their jet lag. But tonight he doesn’t want to go anywhere. Tonight, all he wants to do is stay in, maybe try some Russian food since he’s finally here with someone who knows how to order it, and spend time with Victor.

Back in Hasetsu in the weeks between returning from China and leaving for Moscow, they’d spent what seemed like almost every waking moment together. From what seemed like sunup to sundown they were in each other’s presence more often than not—Victor waking him in the mornings to urge him out for his morning runs, hours on the ice followed by a soak in the onsen. They’d napped together, sometimes, but it was awkward with Yuuri’s family all around, and more often than not, they’d spent their nights apart. He’s nervous and excited to be here now, with Victor only a few measly feet away from him, in their shared hotel room with not a single family member in earshot.

He can’t help the way his face fills with heat, the sudden tightening churn of his stomach with the thought. He’s not sure what to do with the unfamiliar, raging want which boils up under his skin. He’s not used to wanting, not used to _having_ , and it makes him nervous.

There are kisses now, more private kisses than the one they shared at the Cup of China, sweet or teasing or passionate, exchanged whenever they feel like it. Yuuri still isn’t used to being _allowed_ to kiss Victor—or that Victor wants to kiss him—let alone the thought that he, Yuuri, might just want to do more than kiss, more than he’s ever wanted to before in his life.

He thinks about reaching out, about snagging Victor’s wrist as he swans by with the room-service menu. Of pulling him down, of curling into him, of giving in to the heat pooling low in his belly as his eyes roam up and down the tight, broad span of Victor’s back. He thinks Victor would let him, thinks that Victor might want it too.

He lets Victor order them dinner and they eat sitting facing each other on their respective beds. Victor talks unendingly between mouthfuls and Yuuri listens, laughing, as Victor regales him with the story of the last time he was in Moscow for a competition, when Christophe Giacometti got drunk and tried, on a dare, to seduce Yakov.

When they’re finished eating, Victor takes the first shower while Yuuri unpacks his skates and hangs his costumes lovingly in the closet next to Victor’s suits. His hands trail over the shiny black fabric of his _Eros_ costume, rough mesh and hard gems under his fingertips bleeding away to silky smoothness.

He’s come a long way, he thinks, from the boy who couldn’t skate a routine about wanting without imagining katsudon. His want is easy to imagine now, with Victor always so close in a way he never thought he’d have. He’s never felt this way before, never needed like this, never _loved_ like this, and his fingers tremble on the sleeve of his costume as he thinks about what it means.

The door to the bathroom opens and Victor slips out, dressed in a fluffy white robe with the hotel’s name embroidered in Cyrillic lettering on the left breast. There’s a towel around his head, wrapped around his silver hair, and Yuuri can’t help but laugh when Victor bends to kiss him, one hand on his head to keep the towel in place as he does so.

His own shower is quick, and there’s anticipation building under his skin, like he’s waiting for something he hasn’t even decided he can have yet. He dresses quickly in boxers and a worn t-shirt, his usual sleep attire, and he brushes his teeth hurriedly with one hand as he dries his hair with the other.

When he gets out of the bathroom, Victor is already in bed, the towel discarded on the back of a nearby chair to dry. His smile widens, his eyes making a barely perceptible flick down to Yuuri’s bare legs below his boxer-briefs before darting up to fix on his face. Victor watches him, blue eyes some mixture of curious and charmed, as he drapes his wet towel over the back of the same wooden chair, and makes his way over to the side of the bed. He doesn’t know what his face is doing, but it must be humorous, because Victor laughs.

“You’re thinking too hard, Yuuri,” Victor says, when he reaches the edge of the bed. “Are you worried about the competition?” He reaches out a hand to Yuuri, a gentle invitation.

Yuuri shakes his head, because no—no, he’s not worried about his short program. For once, skating is the last thing on his mind. Something warm fills his chest when he sees Victor’s mouth pull up sweetly in answer.

Instead of taking Victor’s hand, he slides into the space at Victor’s side, tucking himself under the bend of Victor’s arm. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the easy way Victor curls around him, that arm dropping to tuck him in closer, or how his whole body lights up at the warm chuckle that Victor lets out, or the way Victor nuzzles into the damp fall of his hair. He hopes that he has a long time to find out.

So he turns into Victor, finding his lips with the accuracy of intent and practice, which they have plenty of, now. Victor makes a happy, satisfied sound, his mouth opening easily under the press of Yuuri’s lips. His other hand finds Yuuri’s waist, the tips of his fingers slipping teasingly under the hem of Yuuri’s t-shirt to settle on the wing of his hip.

They kiss and kiss, and Yuuri finds himself pressing tighter into the warmth of Victor’s chest. His face is warm, a flush high in his cheeks as it always is when they do these things, but Victor’s hand is a solid weight on his hip, his fingers gentle but curling tighter the longer they go on. It makes Yuuri bold, and he wants, like he has for so long, to have more.

He is tired, he thinks, of stopping himself from having the things he wants just because he is afraid. Victor doesn’t make him fearful; not anymore.

Victor’s bare chest is hot under Yuuri’s palm, where his hand is trapped between their bodies. They’re pressed tight together, so Yuuri feels it against his hand, his body, his mouth, when Victor sucks in a gasp as Yuuri trails his other hand lower, over the slight curve of Victor’s side, his thumb flirting nervously with the inside ridge of Victor’s hip.

“Yuuri,” Victor breathes, and it’s a shaky exhalation against the curve of Yuuri’s cheek. He lifts a hand to tip Yuuri’s head back, forcing him to meet his gaze. Victor’s eyes are liquid in the dim, yellow light, and his pupils are swollen full. There’s want written plainly on his face, and Yuuri can barely hold his gaze, some furious mixture of embarrassment and need making him shy, even as he burns to touch Victor.

“Yuuri,” Victor says again. “Are you—do you want…?” and Yuuri closes his eyes, nods against the palm of Victor’s hand.

Victor swallows, loud in the silence of the room, and he opens his mouth to speak, to ask, maybe, _are you sure?_ But Yuuri silences him with his mouth, crashing their lips together before he can give in to his nerves.

His hand shakes when it slips over the curve of Victor’s hip but he doesn’t stop, dragging it slowly in and in until it rests, light, over the heat of Victor’s cock. Victor makes a choked noise and his fingers catch, painful and sweet, in Yuuri’s still-damp hair. Yuuri loves it, loves the sounds he can drag out of this man, the tight, unconscious tug of Victor’s fingers as he gives an experimental stroke through the fabric of Victor’s sleep pants.

It’s different, feeling Victor get hard under his touch, different than when he does this to himself, and there is a heady sort of rush in knowing that he can make Victor come apart like this, that Victor is _his_ , has chosen _him._ His face is flushed—so is the rest of him—and he kisses harder, his tongue slipping out to stroke into Victor’s mouth in counter-time with the motion of his hand. Victor kisses back, hard, and his hips give tiny, unconscious jerks into Yuuri’s fist.

Yuuri pulls away to kiss along the angle of Victor’s jaw, and Victor murmurs his name, and soft, low words in Russian. He can’t understand the words at all, but the tone is something reverent and needy, and it’s that which makes him slip the tips of his fingers under the waistband of Victor’s sleep pants.

He pulls back, just far enough that he can see Victor’s eyes. He looks undone, eyes hooded and lips swollen and flush with kisses. “Is this okay?” Yuuri asks and Victor smiles crookedly and grins.

“Yes, please Yuuri, touch me,” he murmurs, and then he’s kissing Yuuri again.

Yuuri is empowered by it, heat flooding his skin and it gives him the courage to reach for Victor again, this time skin against skin as he curls his fingers around Victor’s length. He strokes him slowly at first, and then faster, and he revels in the way Victor falls apart under his touch.

Victor comes with a low moan, his fingers tightening in Yuuri’s hair and his mouth breaking away from Yuuri’s with the sound. Yuuri strokes him through it, the touch gone tentative and soft until he stops, gently pulling away and removing his hand to let Victor recover.

When Victor opens his eyes, they’re dark with heat and languid want, and he leans in again to kiss Yuuri lavishly, possessively. He whispers in Russian between kisses, and Yuuri can only just make out his name between the unfamiliar syllables.

He makes an awkward sound when Victor reaches to pull him in again, and Victor pulls back, confusion in the furrow of his brow. “What—“

Yuuri smiles, embarrassedly. “I—um—“ He holds up his hand, wet with Victor’s come.

Victor blinks for a moment, and then bursts into joyous, incredulous laughter, kissing Yuuri once more before climbing out of bed to get him a towel to clean his hand with. That done, he climbs back into bed, his hand settling warm and suggestive on Yuuri’s hip.

“Yuuri,” he says, low. “Can I touch you too? I want to make you feel good.”

Yuuri looks up at him, swallows hard. Heat surges under his skin, and he’s anxious, but more than that—

“Yes,” he says, his voice coming hoarse and low, husky in a way he’s never heard before. “Yes, please Victor.”

And Victor smiles, pleased and hungry, and leans in to kiss him.


	3. Hasetsu

Victor arrives early to the Fukuoka Airport, a newly nursed-back-to-health Makkachin trotting happily at his heels. They get a few looks, a few excited whispers from people who recognize him as they make their way through the terminal, pausing at one of the screens to locate the gate that Yuuri’s plane will be disembarking at. Victor hands out gentle smiles and nods, the kind that are acknowledging and gracious but not inviting, because he’s got too much on his mind today to be Living Legend Victor Nikiforov.

It’s so early that it’s not even dark yet when he finds himself a seat on one of the hard, plastic benches that litter the terminal, but it will be by the time Yuuri’s plane touches down. He tells himself he’s just being prompt, but it’s just one of the many lies he tells himself these days. _It’s just ‘til the Grand Prix Final, It doesn’t matter what happens after. You’re just being prompt._

Makkachin climbs up beside him, making himself at home and dropping his head to Victor’s lap with a gusty sigh. Victor chuckles, combing his hand through the curly fur on the top of the poodle’s head. He’s never been so afraid in his life, rushing back to Japan on the earliest flight he could manage, his beloved dog undergoing surgery while he was in the air, helpless and desperately alone. He realized, on that flight, that all he wanted was Yuuri with him to hold his hand and steady him, and the only thing he wanted more was for Makkachin to be healthy so he wouldn’t have to rush back to Japan in the first place, to be there with Yuuri as he skated his Free Skate in Moscow. He’d clung desperately to the hard hug Yuuri had given him as he departed, the fierce kiss they’d shared before Victor had had to run to catch his plane. It was the only thing that kept him sane, until Makkachin was back in his arms and the vet was telling Mari, who in turn told him—in English—that it had been a close call but Makkachin would be just fine.

He’d missed the livestream of the Men’s Free Skate, but it only took a few chosen clicks through social media to find out what he needed to know. Yuuri had placed fourth and by sheer luck of his higher placement at the Cup of China would be going to the Grand Prix Final after all. His coach’s absence hadn’t cost him, and Victor is relieved, even as he regrets leaving Yuuri to fend for himself. His short program had been incredible, and Victor knows— _knows_ —that Yuuri would have made the podium had Victor been there to support him for his free skate. He didn’t need the acerbic text from Yurio ( _Is your dumb dog ok? Good. You better be there at the GPF so Katsudon will be on his game and I can beat him properly)_ , or the call from Yakov (to ream him out—affectionate in the way only Yakov is affectionate, which would appear to the untrained observer to not be affectionate at all—about his poor coaching skills), to know that he had some things to make up for.

“You’re excited to see Yuuri too, aren’t you, Makkachin?” Victor says. Makkachin’s tail wags against the back of the bench, _thump, thump_ , and his head comes up for a moment, looking around, before returning to Victor’s lap.

“It’s going to be a bit of a wait,” he apologizes, glancing up at the clock on the screen, his eyes flicking for the hundredth time over the rows and rows of incoming flights. Makkachin rolls his eyes upward to glance up at him without lifting his head and heaves another sigh, and Victor can’t help his soft laugh.

“I know, I know. I can’t wait to see him either.” And it’s true; Victor can be honest with his dog in a way he has a hard time being honest with himself. His fingers trace idle paths through Makkachin’s coat and he stares out the window at the gathering dark, the sky stained orange and pink. At first, he worried that Yuuri was in love with the idea of him, of Five-time World Champion, record-setting Victor Nikiforov, and not _him_ , the real him. He knew about the posters, about the beloved family dog which had borne his name—Mari had told him about all of it. He was absolutely charmed by Yuuri’s admiration of him, but at the same time he worried that it wasn’t _him_ that Yuuri cared about. Like so many others before, Victor worried that all Yuuri cared about was the idea of The Legend.

But that had changed. Somewhere along the way—maybe that day on the beach, when Yuuri had begged him just to be himself, or maybe in that parking garage before his free skate in China, when Yuuri had cried and screamed at him, or when he had comforted him afterward—Victor had realized that he was more than just the Living Legend to Yuuri. Yuuri cared about _him_ , wanted _him_ , as much as Victor wanted Yuuri.

He pulls out his phone and finds a recording of Yuuri’s free skate to watch while he waits. He winces when Yuuri flubs a couple jumps, barely stifling the groans of dismay, but he smiles when he sees Yuuri rally. That beautiful step sequence, during which he finds himself again, and he can hear Yuuri speaking to him in the swift turns and expressive movements across the distances.

Victor sighs, locking the screen on his phone and raising a hand to rub at his tired eyes. “I’m done for, aren’t I, Makkachin?” he asks the poodle, who lifts his head to give his hand a couple of consoling licks. He smiles, tugging gently at the fur of the dog’s cheeks. He’ll be glad of the next month, during which he and Yuuri can practice and refine his programs for the Grand Prix Final, for Makkachin to recover, and to figure each other out.

It’s dark out now and there are stars winking to life in the dark canvas spread around them. He thinks about Yuuri’s routines, thinks about _Yuuri_ , and he’s so lost in thought that he would have missed it, if not for Makkachin. The poodle perks up suddenly in his lap and lets out a bark as he launches himself from the bench and bounds to the glass separating the waiting area from the gate. There, on the other side, his eyes tired but open wide and sparkling, is Yuuri.

Victor’s breath catches in his chest and he throws himself to his feet. His heart is suddenly in his throat, his chest tight, and he meets Yuuri’s eyes through the glass—and starts to run.

*****

By the time they reach Hasetsu, Yuuri is practically falling asleep on his shoulder, and Victor has to support him as they make their way into the Inn. He tries to disengage, to give Yuuri some space with his family all around, but Yuuri makes a soft, dismayed sound and clings around his middle, and—well Victor hadn’t really wanted to let him go anyway.

Yuuri says sleepy hellos, and accepts the congratulations his family direct his way at his making the Grand Prix Final. He nods, only half-listening, as Minako gives him hell for his lacklustre free skate, and while Hiroko chatters blithely on about what’s been going on since they’ve been gone, until Mari digs a bony elbow into Victor’s other side to get his attention.

“Put him to bed, Vicchan,” she orders in that slow, no nonsense way of hers, her low voice cutting through Hiroko’s chatter, now directed, inexplicably, at Minako. “He’s had a long few days.”

So Victor flashes her a wink and a salute, nimbly dodging the half-hearted swat she aims in his direction, and ushers Yuuri down the hall and off to bed.

Yuuri’s bedroom is neat in a way it only is when he’s been absent from it for a long while, and Yuuri wastes no time in re-cluttering it, dropping his backpack on the floor and shrugging out of his coat to drape it haphazardly over the back of a chair. Then his hands go for the button of his pants and before Victor can protest, Yuuri is stripping down to his boxers right in front of him.

It’s not as though Victor has never seen Yuuri naked; they’ve bathed together in the onsen after long days spent training at the Ice Castle what seems like hundreds of times by now, and Victor has never been one to make a big deal out of nudity. But this is somehow different—Yuuri sleepy and vulnerable and barely aware of himself or what he’s doing—and it gives Victor pause. He turns his head quickly, staring at the empty space on the walls with the faint, faded outline of where the posters of himself had hung, only months earlier, and waits until Yuuri has tossed his pants and his sweatshirt in a corner and crawled, boxer and t-shirt clad, into bed.

“Victor,” Yuuri sighs, and his name, mumbled in that sweet, longing voice, makes Victor’s chest clench painfully. Nearly as bad is the way Makkachin bounds up without hesitation into Yuuri’s bed, or the way that Yuuri lifts his arm automatically to curl it around the poodle when he settles at Yuuri’s side, burying his fingers in the soft fur. Then he kisses Makkachin sleepily on the top of his fluffy head, and Victor can’t believe he’s jealous of his own dog, but here they are.

“Victor,” Yuuri continues, his voice almost slurring with tiredness as he gamely struggles to go on, “tomorrow, when we practice—“

Victor settles himself on the edge of Yuuri’s bed and presses one finger to Yuuri’s lips. “Shhh, Yuuri. Sleep now. We’ll worry about tomorrow when tomorrow arrives.”

Yuuri smiles under Victor’s hand, sleepily purses his lips to kiss the pad of Victor’s finger. “That’s new. You’re so serious about my skating.”

Victor smiles and turns his hand to curl around the angle of Yuuri’s jaw, thumb stroking over his cheek. “I’m trying something new, just for today. Tomorrow I’ll be back to my old slave-driving self.”

A soft huff of laughter is Yuuri’s only reply, and he turns his head into the touch. He mumbles something in sleepy Japanese, his voice trailing slowly off into silence.Victor stays there until Yuuri’s breath evens out a few moments later, pausing to stroke the hair out of Yuuri’s face.

“Sleep, my Yuuri,” he murmurs in soft Russian. He bends to place a gentle kiss to Yuuri’s forehead. He reaches out a hand to Makkachin, scratching between the fluffy ears, before he stands to leave. He thinks momentarily about staying, about what it would be like to curl up in bed beside Yuuri and his dog, to tuck himself in along the warm line of Yuuri’s back. He’s never wanted anything so badly and he misses sleeping in the same bed as Yuuri like they had in Beijing, but he knows that’s not for right now. Not with Yuuri’s family all around and with Yuuri already too far gone to give his permission.

“You keep him company, Makkachin,” he says instead. “Watch over him for the both of us.”

Makkachin wags his tail once in acknowledgement, and Victor smiles as he shuts off the light, closing the door softly behind him on his way out.

*****

True to his word, Victor wakes Yuuri early the next morning to start training for the Grand Prix Final. They have under three weeks to prepare, and Yuuri’s program will need refining so that he can give the best performance possible and have a shot at the Gold. Yuuri stumbles sleepily out of bed for his run, Makkachin following at his heels, and he pauses where Victor is waiting at the door to his room to stretch up on his toes and place a sleepy kiss on Victor’s mouth.

The next few days are exhausting, both on and off the ice, and Victor can see the anxiety building in Yuuri’s body as the Final creeps ever closer. It’s in the way he flubs his jumps in practice, in the ever-growing dark circles under his eyes. He can see it happening and he tries his best to ease it, massaging the tension from Yuuri’s body after a soak in the onsen, dressing the tender and bruised parts of his feet after a long day on the ice.

They’re in the middle of practice—just the two of them, the empty arena echoing with the sound of Yuuri’s skates on the ice—as Yuuri steps out of the quad flip that he’s determined to perfect before the final for what seems like the hundredth time. Victor rakes gloved fingers through his hair, frustration and concern and helplessness behind the motion.

“Stop,” Victor calls across the rink to where Yuuri is setting up to try the jump _again_. Yuuri pauses, skidding to a stop and letting his arms fall to his side, breathing hard. He watches as Victor skates over to him, and when Victor gets close he can see the tension in Yuuri’s sweaty brow, the clench of his fists at his side, the wide, anxious brown eyes.

He’s waiting for a reprimand, or critique, Victor realizes. It’s true, Victor can think of three or four things Yuuri could do to correct the flip, but he’s told Yuuri those things several times already today, and he knows Yuuri was listening, is _trying_. It’s not what Yuuri needs right now.

So instead, he reaches to cup Yuuri’s face in his gloved hands, leaning in to press their lips together. Yuuri makes a soft, surprised noise and Victor catches it, kisses him again.

“You need to relax, _solnyshko_ ,” Victor says softly. “You won’t be able to land the jump if you can’t concentrate and let go of whatever is distracting you.”

Yuuri’s hands find his waist, curling into the fabric of his sweater like they need to be clutching something. “I’m trying,” he says miserably, and he presses his forehead to Victor’s chest for just a moment before straightening, resolve in his eyes. “I’ll try again.”

Victor shakes his head. “No, not yet. Take a break with me, Yuuri.” He’s not sure what he’s going to do until he’s doing it, taking Yuuri’s hands and skating backward away from him, an invitation. “Let’s just skate for a while.”

“I _was_ skating,” Yuuri protests petulantly, but he follows nonetheless.

Victor takes him on a slow, looping path around the rink, a warm-up of sorts, though he knows Yuuri is already warm. He lets go of Yuuri’s hand, skating away from him only to skate in a teasing circle around behind him, reaching out to brush a hand over his waist. Yuuri laughs when Victor takes his hand again and pulls him in close, lets Victor spin him away, and already the tension is easing from his body.

It’s almost like they’re dancing, at home on the ice together. Their movements become playful and teasing and the previously silent rink rings out with the sound of their laughter. The tension is gone from Yuuri’s brow and he follows Victor without a second thought, the pair of them twisting and turning on the ice like they belong there together, gloved hands brushing shoulders and waists. Yuuri surprises him by pressing him into a dip and Victor beams up at him, Yuuri’s strong arm holding him steady.

They don’t stop, weaving flirtatious patterns around each other, catching each other’s hands to spin together. Victor has forgotten why he started this, caught up instead in the easy grace of Yuuri’s body, the open smile on his face, the touch of Yuuri’s hands on him when the brush up close together. The lift is an absurd idea, but Victor does it anyway, moving in behind Yuuri to place both hands at his waist, and even more absurd is that Yuuri goes along with it, pushing off the ice just as Victor lifts him up. Yuuri dissolves into terribly adorable giggles in midair, and Victor has to put him down when he starts to laugh as well. The second lift goes better, and Yuuri is beaming by the time Victor sets him back down on the ice, his eyes wide and soft as he gazes across at Victor.

He skates ahead and away, and Victor sees the jump building before it happens and he doesn’t stop it. This time, when Yuuri plants his toe pick and launches into the quad flip, it’s perfect, and he lands on his opposite foot with barely a wobble. He’s grinning when he skates back to Victor’s side, and Victor catches his forearm to pull him into a playful spin, circling slower and slower until they come to a stop in the center of the ice, arms curled around each other.

“That was fun,” Yuuri says, a little breathless, his mouth split in a wide smile.

“It was,” Victor confirms, smirking down at him. “I have all sorts of great ideas.”

Yuuri grumbles and shoves playfully at his shoulder, pushing him away. Victor doesn’t stop him, letting Yuuri’s shove propel him a few feet away. He pouts theatrically, his arms held outstretched towards Yuuri until Yuuri laughs and skates back into his embrace.

“If only we could skate together in competition,” Yuuri says regretfully.

Victor smiles softly. “You want to switch to pairs skating, now?” he teases. “Don’t you think you should master one discipline before trying another?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Yuuri says, flushing adorably. He shuffles on his skates, his gaze falling to Victor’s chest, hiding his flustered gaze. “I just like skating with you.”

Victor taps a thoughtful finger on his lips, an idea forming slowly. “What about the gala exhibition? After the final?” he asks slowly. “It’s not in competition, but it would be broadcasted.”

Yuuri looks up quickly to meet Victor’s gaze, his eyes lighting up before shuttering quickly. “But we don’t have time to learn something new.”

Victor smiles behind his finger. He winks. “There’s something we both already know,” he reminds Yuuri, and his chest feels tight with joy at the slow, understanding smile that stretches across Yuuri’s face.

“ _Stay close to me_ ,” Yuuri says, wonderingly, and the way he says it sounds like it isn’t just the name of the program.

There’s nothing for it—Victor has to kiss him. And he does, throwing his arms around Yuuri and kissing him so thoroughly his skates come off the ice.


	4. Barcelona

The high from the medal ceremony of the Grand Prix Final carries them both all the way to the banquet. It’s not a gold, but the silver medal Yuuri wins at the Grand Prix Final looks damn good around his neck and there’s no question that Yuuri had proven his love to the whole world. Victor knows now that they’re in this together; he and Yuuri will be competing side by side, and he will keep coaching Yuuri, and everything looks rosy and wonderful as they make their way from the rink hand in hand.

They spend some time giving their inevitable interviews, and the reporters give Katsuki Yuuri his moment in the spotlight, but then they want to know if Living Legend Victor Nikiforov is coming back to the ice to reclaim his records. Victor tells them—demurely, he thinks, though others (Yurio) might beg to differ—that he will, in fact, be returning to competitive skating and tries to redirect them back to Yuuri.

It turns out that Yuuri doesn’t need his help, because he shocks and delights Victor and the reporters alike by interrupting to tell them calmly that he’s going to top the GPF podium next year, whether Victor is on the ice or not.

By the time they make it to the ballroom for the banquet, most of the other skaters and their coaches are already milling around the room. Yurio is standing with—Otabek, Victor is delighted to see, and he looks marginally less angry than he usually does, which for Yuri is practically joyful. He’s not sure whether it’s the gold medal or the company, but either way, it looks good on him.

He’d managed to get Yuuri into a better suit, one that  _ fits,  _ and oh does he look good. This one highlights the slim line of his lithe body, the trim swell of his thighs and ass. Victor finds himself beaming as the other skaters and coaches and reporters make their way over to congratulate Yuuri and shake his hand, and he slings a casual arm around Yuuri’s shoulders, warmed when Yuuri smiles softly up at him and leans into the touch.

“Some champagne, Yuuri?” Victor asks slyly when the vultures clear, snagging a glass delicately off a nearby table. He wiggles the glass in front of Yuuri’s face, making it bubble and fizz precariously. He’s rewarded by a flush and a scowl, and he laughs, raising the glass to his own lips.

“Does that mean we won’t get to see your pole dancing skills again this year, Yuuri?”

Christophe appears at Victor’s side, sultry grin on his full lips, and he winks salaciously at poor Yuuri, who seems to be doing his best to disappear into himself. Chris chuckles and reaches to clink his glass against Victor’s.

“Shame,” he says casually. “That was the best banquet I can remember.”

Victor laughs, raising his glass again in salute. “Me too.”

“I wish I could remember it,” Yuuri says ruefully, and Victor laughs, turning his head to press a kiss into Yuuri’s hair.

Yurio appears with a noise like an angry cat. “Will you stop?! You two are disgusting.” He glances around surreptitiously before making a sneaky grab for Victor’s champagne, but Victor pulls it swiftly of reach, cocking one eyebrow in Yurio’s direction.

“Now Yurio, you know Yakov discourages underaged drinking.”  He raises the glass to his mouth to take a long sip.

Yuri scowls. “That’s not my name, you disgusting sap.” He turns his glare on Yuuri. “ _ You _ better not be drinking this year either. I’m not going to be dragged into another dance off.”

Yuuri looks embarrassed, his cheeks flushing, but he untucks himself to smile sweetly at Yuri. “I don’t need to get drunk to have a showdown with you, Yurio. We’ll have our chance at World’s.”

Victor laughs delightedly, along with Chris, while Yurio turns approximately the shade of a ripe beet. He opens his mouth to retort, glancing at a group of reporters leaning conspicuously close to their group and shuts his mouth, looking mutinous.

The evening passes with much needling of both Yuuri and Yurio, though sadly without any dance-offs or pole dances (though not for lack of trying on Christophe’s part.) Still, it’s a fine enough evening, and Victor is thrilled to be there with Yuuri, and so proud every time someone asks him about his silver medal win that his cheeks hurt from beaming. He brags about their rings to anyone who asks, and Yuuri turns pink at his side but smiles happily all the same. 

It’s long after midnight by the time they stagger up to the room together, arms around each other, and it’s unclear which of them is holding the other up. Yuuri fishes the keycard out of his pocket and lets them into their shared room, and wastes no time in shedding the—tasteful and extremely fashionable—tie Victor had picked out for him.

“That was a fun banquet. The most fun I’ve had at one so far.” Yuuri flushes, grinning sheepishly at Victor’s knowing smirk. “That I can remember,” he amends.

Victor chuckles, reaching out a hand for Yuuri, who moves willingly into his touch. “Well I certainly enjoyed the banquet at Sochi. Though it was much nicer being here with you this time. My Yuuri.”

Yuuri hums an embarrassed, happy sound, and turns his face into Victor’s chest, hands clutching at the back of his suit jacket. They stand, quiet for a moment, holding each other in the center of the room, before Victor pulls back slightly, hands on Yuuri’s shoulders so that he can look down into his eyes.

“There is one thing I missed though,” he says mournfully. Yuuri’s brow furrows, and Victor goes on. “I didn’t get to dance with you this time.”

“We danced?” Yuuri says, looking some mixture of pleased and queasy, and Victor laughs.

“We did. You were very insistent, Yuuri. Impossible to resist.” He grins, his hands sliding up to cup the sides of Yuuri’s neck, bending to place a gentle kiss on his lips. “You still are.”

Yuuri smiles and stretches up to kiss him again, and Victor sinks willingly into it, letting his lips part against Yuuri’s soft mouth for a moment before pulling back. “ _ Yuuuuuuriiiiii _ . I’m so sad we didn’t get to dance at the banquet this year. Will you dance with me?” he asks, stepping back and offering his hands, giving him his best pleading expression.

It works: Yuuri laughs, his eyes crinkling up with the force of his smile in the way that Victor loves, and he takes Victor’s hands in his. They dance, quiet in their Barcelona hotel room, the noise and rush of the crowd at the competition, and the gala exhibition and the banquet left behind. Victor hums a broken tune, something fast and fun at first, spinning and twirling Yuuri around him until they’re both laughing. And because Yuuri likes to surprise him, continues to do so over and over, he takes control mid-dip, turning the tables to dip Victor low over his arm, reminiscent of how he had in Sochi when they danced for the first time.

Victor laughs jubilantly and Yuuri does too, pulling him up and close until they’re standing near, swaying gently back and forth in the center of the room. Yuuri’s hand finds the back of Victor’s head, sliding into his hair in the way that Victor loves, makes him purr like a kitten and arch into the taut line of Yuuri’s body as Yuuri pulls him down and into another kiss. It’s that combination of shy and forward, the gentle touch of Yuuri’s fingers with the iron strength of his hands and arms behind them, that Victor loves more than anything. He sinks into the kiss, his hands finding the hard ridge of Yuuri’s hips and pulling him in close in answer. He never had any hope of resisting Yuuri and never much wanted to, either.

Yuuri pulls and he goes, moving into Yuuri’s body as their soft kisses gain intent. Yuuri makes a soft sound of surprise when his back bumps up against the wall, but far from being trapped there, he uses it as leverage, bracing himself to pull Victor in as tight as possible as Victor presses in hungrily. He can never get enough of this; of Yuuri under his hands. He wants him so much, always, and loves him even more.

It’s been a careful push and pull, their physical relationship. Victor has been careful to let Yuuri set the pace, content to be with Yuuri in whatever way possible. He knows, from what brief information he  _ could  _ get out of Yuuri back in Hasetsu when they were first getting to know one another, that Yuuri has never been with anyone, romantically or sexually, and the knowledge gives him pause, warns him to go slowly.

But it had been Yuuri to touch him first, and it’s Yuuri now that bucks his hips up against Victor’s, his growing erection rubbing tantalizingly against the spur of Victor’s hip. Victor murmurs his appreciation without breaking the kiss, hands tightening to pull him in harder, tighter, letting him know that he wants this, wants to give Yuuri every ounce of pleasure he wants to take. Yuuri’s hands tighten in his hair, making him groan, and Yuuri’s kiss is hungry, as is the leg he slings over Victor’s so that he can press harder against Victor’s thigh.

Victor pulls back, ignoring the dismayed sound that works its way out of Yuuri’s throat, just far enough to look at him. Yuuri looks debauched, his neatly combed and gelled hair mussed, his glasses smudged and askew. He’s breathing heavily, cheeks flushed and lips kiss-swollen and red, and Victor doesn’t think he’s wanted anyone this much, ever. His hand slides up Yuuri’s strong thigh, curling in the small of his knee, hitching him in tighter just for a moment so he can kiss him once, twice more.

Then he pulls back again, determined this time, smiling at the confusion on Yuuri’s face. But he’s not going far, couldn’t even if he wanted to. He eases Yuuri’s thigh out from around him, caressing up from his knee, to his thigh, back to his hip.

And then he drops to his knees.

His hands fan out over Yuuri’s sides, thumbs finding the ridges of his hips to skate gently over them. He looks up from his position on the floor, watching Yuuri’s eyes widen, his lips part and his breath catch in his chest as he looks down at Victor.

“Yuuri,” Victor asks, his voice gone low and husky. His right hand finds the waistband of Yuuri’s suit pants, the tips of his fingers just touching the edge where his carefully-tucked shirt disappears inside them, thumb skimming the neat clasp. “Can I?”

Yuuri licks his lips and nods jerkily, his hands digging into the muscle of Victor’s shoulders. Victor smiles, tossing his head to flip his hair out of his eyes, and works Yuuri’s pants open with single-minded determination. Yuuri laughs at him when he yanks his pants down off his hips, then sucks in a shaky breath when he goes for the waistband of his black boxer-briefs.

It’s enough to give Victor pause. “Yuuri?” he asks, fingers stalled where they’re hooked in the elastic. He can feel the heat of Yuuri’s erection against his cheek even through his underwear, but Yuuri’s hands tremble where they’re curled around his shoulders. He pulls back, waits. “Are you sure? We don’t have to.”

Yuuri closes his eyes, swallows, and his hands tighten where he’s clutching at Victor. He shakes his head, fast, decisive. “No—I want to. V-Victor, please.”

It’s all the encouragement he needs. He grins, leans in to kiss the trembling muscle of Yuuri’s stomach through his shirt, clenched tight and needy under his lips. Yuuri makes a soft sound and squirms against the wall, and Victor grins, does it again. He knows Yuuri is ticklish.

“Victor,” Yuuri says, and this time it’s admonishing, petulant.

Victor chuckles. “Okay  _ malysh _ , okay.” He winks up at Yuuri and pulls the boxers down. Yuuri’s cock springs free, full and flushed and Victor’s mouth waters. He wastes no time, working the boxers down as far as Yuuri’s knees before he leans in to part his lips over the head, sucking gently.

The response is immediate and beautiful as everything Yuuri does—he makes a noise like he’s dying and his hips jerk involuntarily against the firm grip of Victor’s hands. Victor bears down on his hips, holding him firm against the wall as he sucks, hollowing his cheeks and working his mouth down further over Yuuri’s length. He’s no stranger to blowjobs and he wants more than anything for Yuuri to feel good, so he sets himself to giving Yuuri the best first head of his life, taking him quickly as far as he can into the back of his throat. It’s a little difficult to concentrate though, when Yuuri’s hands find his hair, fisting in the strands until his eyes flutter and he moans involuntarily around Yuuri’s cock, his rhythm stuttering. He can’t focus with the heat of Yuuri in his mouth, the smell of him up close and concentrated there between his legs, the sounds he makes above Victor’s head. It’s making him crazy, and he gives up on giving that perfect blowjob and focuses on the sounds Yuuri’s making, the clench of his fingers in Victor’s hair, and sets about pulling as many of those sounds out of him as possible, making those beautiful fingers go so tight in his hair he sees sparks behind his eyelids.

His own cock is painfully hard, pressing insistently against the front of his slacks, and he releases one of Yuuri’s hips to open his pants. He doesn’t stop, bobbing his head insistently, swallowing around the head of Yuuri’s cock only to draw back and tongue at the slit, but he curls his free hand around himself, desperate for relief. Yuuri is so beautiful, the lines of his body tight with the strain, his head thrown back against the wood-panelled wall and eyes squeezed shut behind his glasses, and it fills Victor with heat. He strokes himself off as he sucks Yuuri down, kneeling there worshipfully at his feet.

Victor has only had a handful of opportunities to watch Yuuri come, and each time is as beautiful as the last. His mouth gasps open, a broken, punched-out sound, and his stomach, exposed where Victor’s left hand had pushed his shirt up his chest tightens, all the muscles drawing up hard and tight. The line of his neck is beautiful, as graceful as he is on the ice, and Victor loves him, loves him more than he ever believed he could.

He comes hard, the taste bitter and salty on Victor’s tongue, and Victor, greedy, swallows it all down.

He lets Yuuri come down, gently licking his cock clean of all traces of his come, then pressing gentle kisses and nips to the soft insides of his thighs. Yuuri’s hands loosen in his hair and he mumbles something in Japanese that could be apology or could be endearment as he strokes gently over the strands, sweeping it back off of Victor’s face. Victor looks up at Yuuri to find him smiling dazedly down at him and his heart lurches inside his chest.

“Good?” he asks, his voice coming out wrecked and husky, and Yuuri smiles shyly and nods.

“Good,” Victor repeats, satisfied, and pushes himself to his feet. He leans in to kiss reverently at Yuuri’s neck, nosing aside the open collar of his shirt to run his lips over the elegant line of his collarbone. His hand, slipped up now inside Yuuri’s shirt, slides around his body to lay flat against Yuuri’s back, drawing them as close together as can be.

He would be content to sit like this, to hold Yuuri up against the wall until they couldn’t stand anymore, but Yuuri’s clever hand finds its way between them, curling around Victor’s neglected erection. He gasps at the renewed rush, forgotten in the clamour of Yuuri’s climax, and he leans into the touch, his hips thrusting helplessly into Yuuri’s grip.

“Yuuri,” he groans under his breath and Yuuri’s hand tightens around him, moves a little faster. Victor pants into Yuuri’s collarbone, lost in the sensation, until Yuuri yanks his head up by the hair and kisses him, tongue slipping in curiously to taste himself on Victor’s tongue.

It’s too much, and Victor was already so close to the edge anyway. He comes on a broken benediction that might have been Yuuri’s name, or a curse, or a prayer, Yuuri’s hand tight in his hair, their mouths slotted together like they belong.


	5. St. Petersburg

The first stop on their roundabout journey to St. Petersburg after the Grand Prix Final is Hasetsu, where they celebrate Yuuri’s silver medal with (almost) more katsudon than Yuuri can eat. It’s a brief stop, because there is the Four Continents to prepare for in Yuuri’s case and the European Championships in Victor’s, and World’s for both of them, and they only spend a couple weeks at Yu-topia before they are back on a plane to Russia, this time with Makkachin in tow.

Yuuri has his fair share of anxiety travelling with Makkachin in cargo, but Victor assures him he’s alright, that he’s used to it by now. Sure enough, the poodle bounds happily out of his kennel when they finally arrive at Pulkovo International Airport, looking no worse for wear. Yuuri, on the other hand, is exhausted despite having slept (albeit fitfully) for a few hours on the plane, and only the excitement of seeing St. Petersburg for the first time keeps him awake on the drive to Victor’s apartment.

Somehow they make it up the stairs with Victor’s frankly ridiculously excessive number of bags, Makkachin eagerly leading the way, and Yuuri finally finds himself outside Victor’s apartment.

He often thinks about all the little steps that brought him here, each tiny piece of the puzzle that fell into place to become _this_. He thinks how one tiny misstep—if he hadn’t gotten embarrassingly drunk at the Sochi GPF banquet, for example, or if the Nishigori triplets hadn’t posted the video of him performing Victor’s short program, for another—might have meant that he would never have ended up here, smiling tiredly up at his longtime idol, who smiles back and takes his hand to lead him into his apartment.

Except Victor is much more than just his idol now. He knows him, knows the broken and shallow parts of him as much as he knows the parts that he has always admired—and still does. He knows that Victor can make mistakes, and that he isn’t perfect, but it only makes Yuuri love him more.

Victor slips out of his coat, hanging it in the closet by the door, and Yuuri hands his over to be hung beside it, like it belongs there. Victor gives him a perfunctory tour, apologizing for the layer of dust which has gathered on every surface. He feeds Makkachin, and because Victor has no food in his fridge, they order takeout which they eat sitting on Victor’s expensive suede couch.

“I’m so tired,” Yuuri says, afterward, slumping down in his seat.

Victor kneads his hands into the tight muscles at the base of Yuuri’s neck. “I know. But we should stay up,” Victor suggests, a little regretfully. “Try and beat our jet lag so we can sleep better tomorrow.”

Yuuri nods reluctantly, his nose brushing the soft fabric of Victor’s sweater. They’ve both travelled extensively in their skating careers and are no strangers to time adjustments. “What should we do?”

“I can think of something,” Victor says, waggling his eyebrows. Yuuri laughs, and Victor grins, but he climbs out from under both Makkachin and Yuuri, making his way over to a cabinet filled with DVD cases. “Should we watch a movie?”

Yuuri nods, his hand tracing long paths through Makkachin’s coat. “You pick,” he says, and Victor does, and they laugh through the first third of a comedy that Yuuri won’t remember later, stretched out across the couch with Yuuri leaning against Victor’s chest and Makkachin tucked in at their feet.

Yuuri wakes suddenly, hours later, with a cramp in his back and a poodle rolling around at his feet. The light streaming in the windows is the illumination of a city at night, streetlights casting a dim glow through curtains they’d failed to close. He’s drooling a little, he’s embarrassed to note, and even more embarrassed when he realizes it’s Victor’s warm chest he’s drooling on. Makkachin is struggling to get comfortable in the tiny space left at his and Victor’s feet, and Yuuri’s arm is asleep where it’s crushed between his body and Victor’s.

He struggles to sit up, stifling a groan, and he winces when Victor stirs beneath him. “Yuuri?” he asks sleepily, blinking up at him and stretching. He looks soft like this, and somehow younger, and Yuuri can’t help but smile down at him.

“What?” Victor asks, smiling up at him in response.

“Nothing,” Yuuri says, shaking his head, but he bites his lip and leans in to press a kiss to Victor’s sleep-fuzzy mouth. He’s rewarded with Victor’s hum of approval, the curl of his arms around Yuuri’s body and the elegant stretch of his neck as he cranes into the kiss.

After a moment, Yuuri pulls back with a grimace. “Morning breath.”

Victor pouts. “But it’s not the morning.” He glances at the watch around his slender wrist and laughs incredulously. “Actually it is—about 3 o’clock, to be exact.”

“Come on, get up,” Yuuri says, laughing, and pries himself out of Victor’s grasp to pull him to his feet. They make their way to the bathroom, opening new toothbrushes from the cupboard under Victor’s sink rather than digging through their abandoned suitcases for the ones they already have. Yuuri laughs as Victor meticulously combs his hair, then squawks as Victor turns the comb on him, battling the mussed strands into submission.

They climb into Victor’s enormous, indulgent king-sized bed, with the vague notion of trying to get back to sleep and salvage their sleep schedule. It quickly becomes apparent, however, that their ill-advised, unplanned, seven-hour nap has rendered sleep next to impossible.

After what can’t have been more than ten minutes, Victor flops dramatically onto his back, shaking the mattress beneath them. “Yuuuuriiiiiii,” he whines. “I can’t sleep.”

“I can’t either,” Yuuri replies, and he turns onto his side. He lets his eyes roam over Victor, the color washed from him in the faint streetlight that makes its way through the thick curtains, from the thick, silver sweep of his hair across the pillow, to the long graceful bridge of his nose, the soft lips, the sharp line of his jaw. His collarbones and the muscle of his shoulders and arms are visible over the blanket and Yuuri’s mouth goes dry as he stares.

He reaches, tentative across the space between them, his fingers finding the mouth-watering arch of Victor’s hip under the covers.

Victor turns his head to stare at Yuuri, his eyes darkening with promise. He licks his lips and turns into the touch of Yuuri’s hand, and then they’re kissing, like they have done what seems like hundreds of times now. He loves kissing Victor, ever since that first time at the Cup of China, can’t seem to get enough of the press of his lips and the flick of his tongue, the gentle nip of his teeth.

He’s gotten better at this; he thinks. He doesn’t trip over the motions anymore, doesn’t clack their teeth together or use too much tongue. He’s learned what Victor likes, that his fingers tangled and tight in Victor’s hair makes him moan, that there’s a spot behind his ear that makes him shudder and gasp. The twist of his wrist around Victor’s length is no longer clumsy, and he knows the right speed and pressure to turn Victor to putty under his hands. He’s still careful when he takes Victor in his mouth, has to go slow in order to keep from choking on him, but he loves doing that too, and Victor seems to have no complaints.

There’s something they haven’t done yet, though. Something Yuuri really, really wants to do right now, here in Victor’s home, in his bed with him for the first time.

“Victor,” he says breathlessly, his voice trailing off on a moan at the sweet sting of Victor’s teeth on his nipple. “Can we—can we, um.”

Victor pries himself away from Yuuri’s chest, his mouth coming away from the nipple he’s been worrying with an obscene wet sound. “Can we what, _malysh_?

Yuuri blushes hotly. He doesn’t know if he can say it, if he can get the words out, but he makes himself do it, scrambling for a moment to find the correct words in English. “Canwehavesex?” he blurts.

“You want to make love, Yuuri?” Victor asks, his voice amused but there’s also something dark and hungry in his gaze, his already swollen pupils blowing up wide.

When Victor says it, it sounds sexy and wonderful, unlike the jumbled mess of Yuuri’s words, but he should have known it would. Everything Victor does is sexy—a stark contrast to Yuuri himself who just ten months earlier hadn’t known how to skate Eros without imagining Katsudon. But somehow, Victor wants him—that much is clear in the hungry gaze and the flush under his pale skin—and it makes him bold. Yuuri makes himself meet Victor’s gaze.

“Yes,” he says decisively, and rakes a hand through Victor’s hair. “Yes, please, Victor.”

Victor grins, and leans in to kiss him hungrily, tongue in his mouth, teeth nipping at his bottom lip. Then he’s pulling himself away, lunging out of bed to shoo Makkachin into the hall, returning to the bed to rummage in the bedside table and crowing triumphantly when he manages to find a small bottle of clear liquid and a condom. He kneels on the bed beside Yuuri and holds the items up in demonstration, cocking an eyebrow.

“You or me?”

Yuuri is sure his face is purple with his blush by now, but he knows what he wants. “Me.”

Victor swallows, naked desire on his face and he drops the lube and the condom on the bed beside Yuuri’s hip and leans in to kiss him lavishly. Yuuri stretches up into the kiss, desperate and nervous and shaking with how much he wants it. Victor settles himself between Yuuri’s thighs, kissing down the line of his neck, his torso, the cut of his hip, gentle on the head of his cock.

His fingers—one at first, slick with lube and eased gently, slowly in—feel huge and strange inside Yuuri’s body. It doesn’t hurt like he’d expected it to, and it’s not long before he’s asking, haltingly, for another. The second burns a little more, but Victor murmurs to him soothingly in Russian as he does it, gentle kisses on the inside of his thigh to distract him until he decides he likes it, spreads his legs for more. He takes Yuuri’s cock into his mouth for the third finger and the burning ache there contrasts with the sweet pleasure of his mouth, distracting and oh, so good.

Somewhere between the third finger and the fourth, Yuuri thinks he begs. He’s ready, wants it now and needs more, but Victor slows him.

“One more, _malysh_ ,” he says, and his accent is thicker somehow, his voice husky from taking Yuuri’s cock into his throat. “I want you to feel very good.”

And that’s when he shifts his fingers, intent in his expression and every line of his body, and finds something that lights Yuuri up from the inside, shocks of pleasure dancing through his body, his cock, his spine. He makes a sound embarrassingly like a wail, but Victor seems to like it, a groan tumbling from his lips.

“My God, Yuuri, you’re so beautiful,” Victor says, into his hip, punctuating it with a nip, a lush kiss. “So, so beautiful.”

Yuuri doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but the words make him need even more. “Please Victor,” he says, “please, now,” and Victor finally listens.

He pulls his fingers out with a shaky breath to match Yuuri’s, reaching to open the condom and roll it down his length. Yuuri doesn’t think he can watch this and live, but he also can’t look away, Victor’s long, graceful fingers smoothing the latex over his erection, slicking himself with more lube. He bends to kiss Yuuri as he eases inside, and he does so slowly, stopping at intervals to give Yuuri time to adjust.

Yuuri is grateful—he feels so full, stretched and open but _filled_ , and god it feels good. The heat of Victor over him, surrounding him, in him. It burns a little, but Victor had done his job well and mostly, it just feels good and right and everything he wished for.

Victor kisses his neck, the angle of his jaw, and Yuuri turns into it to find his mouth. “You can move,” he says between kisses, and Victor does.

Yuuri clutches at Victor’s back, feeling the powerful muscle move under his hands. He thinks he’s leaving marks behind, his short nails digging into Victor’s skin, but he can’t stop and Victor doesn’t seem to mind, making a pleased noise and thrusting harder into him. Somewhere along the way it stops feeling fine and starts feeling amazing, and Yuuri is filled with the overwhelmingness of it all, of being fucked by Victor, who he loves more than anything, and by the way he and he alone can make Victor feel like this. He cries out when Victor’s cock finds that spot, and Victor notices, bracing himself to find that angle again, huge, shocking flashes of pleasure lancing through Yuuri’s body with each powerful thrust. He tilts into it, wanton and needy, and then words are spilling out of his mouth without his consent.

“I love you, Victor,” he sobs, clutching hard at Victor’s shoulders, “I love you, I love—“

Victor makes a sound like he’s dying and buries himself inside Yuuri, the climax wracking him until he’s gasping. He collapses, shaking, on top of Yuuri for a moment, catching his breath, and then he’s pulling carefully out, wasting no time in sliding down the bed to suck Yuuri’s cock down, two fingers sliding into his ass where he’s slick and open to stroke insistently over that place inside that makes him see stars.

Yuuri follows Victor over the edge with his hands tangled in Victor’s hair, his back bowing off the bed as heat and pleasure suffuse his body. In the haze that follows, he doesn’t remember Victor leaving to go dispose of the condom, but he flinches at the damp touch of the washcloth Victor runs over his torso when he returns, gently cleaning him up.

“I’m sorry,” Victor whispers, and he bends to press a kiss to Yuuri’s forehead. Yuuri makes a discontented sound and reaches up to drag him into a proper kiss. Victor’s mouth tastes like his own come, and Yuuri will never fail to be shocked at the pleased possessiveness that curls through him at that taste, bitter and salty, on Victor’s tongue. He keeps him there, kissing and kissing until Victor pulls away, laughing, to drop the washcloth in the laundry hamper.

Yuuri watches him sleepily as he crawls back into bed, naked and beautiful in the near-dark. He curls immediately into Victor’s chest, burying face head in the curve of his neck. He’s lost in bliss for several moments before the memory comes rushing back to him—his shameless, needy cries, the demanding clutch of his hands and sprawl of his legs, but more than that, the words that had come tumbling helplessly out in the heat of the moment.

He flushes, embarrassed, and buries his face deeper into Victor’s chest.

“What’s wrong, _solnyshko_?” Victor asks, nuzzling into the sweaty fall of Yuuri’s hair.

He buries his face deeper. “I’m sorry,” Yuuri mumbles, his lips moving against Victor’s collarbone.

“Sorry? For what?”

“For what I said,” Yuuri says. He closes his eyes against the flush in his cheeks, and he makes a sound like a startled parrot when Victor draws back sharply, the cool air of the room rushing into the space between them. His hand on Yuuri’s shoulder forces him back, startling him into meeting Victor’s gaze.

“Yuuri,” Victor says sternly, his eyes suddenly bright and hard. His fingertips press divots into the muscle of Yuuri’s shoulder. “The only reason you would ever have to be sorry for that, is if you didn’t mean it.”

Yuuri blinks at him, feeling his face flush even deeper. “I meant it, Victor, of course I did.” The fingers of his left hand find the ring on his right, twisting it nervously around his finger. “I just didn’t mean to say it—then, or like that—“

Victor’s face brightens, eases, and Yuuri doesn’t notice the fear written in the set of his brow or his wide, blue eyes until it disappears to be replaced by that open, wondering joy that Yuuri has come to love. He doesn’t know why he deserves that expression from Victor, so different from the cool, charming smile he flashes the press or his multitudes of adoring fans, but he knows that he would probably die without it.

“You can say that whenever, or however you want,” Victor says. “As many times as you want. I’ll never tire of hearing it.”

Yuuri’s smile is wobbly. “Really?”

Victor nods frantically, and then he’s leaning in to capture Yuuri’s lips in a hungry kiss, as though they hadn’t just finished making love only moments earlier. “I love you, Yuuri,” he says, between presses of his mouth, and Yuuri’s heart soars. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Yuuri says when he can get a word in around Victor’s lips and tongue, blushing again despite himself, and he laughs when Victor digs teasing hands into his sides where he knows he’s ticklish.

“Stop it, you monster,” Yuuri retorts, kicking at Victor’s shins, but he accepts the kiss Victor leans in to place once more on his lips.

“I’m glad you’re here with me,” Victor says, breathless, when he pulls back. “This place—I was so lonely here before, just me and Makkachin. I’m so glad.”

“I am too,” Yuuri replies, feeling his own smile split his face. He wonders if he could tease Victor back to hardness, if they could make love again before they fall asleep. There’s a pleasant ache deep inside that he feels every time he moves, a reminder of what they’d done, and it’s enough to make him want more, to want it again. But Makkachin chooses that exact moment to whine forlornly from the hallway, and Yuuri feels that post-sex drowsiness stealing over his body even as he climbs out of bed to pull on a clean pair of boxers from Victor’s chest of drawers, and let the excitable poodle into the bedroom. He’s always sleepy after sex, even when the sex follows a seven hour nap in the middle of the day.

Makkachin makes himself comfortable between them, making them both laugh, albeit ruefully. Victor takes his hand over Makkachin’s head and kisses it, his soft mouth landing half on the gold of his ring and half on skin.

Yuuri smiles, sleepily, curling his fingers around Victor’s. He skates his thumb over the ring on Victor’s finger, and knows that they’ll have time.

They’ll have time for all of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! this is my first yuri!!! on ice fic, but i'm definitely not going anywhere. Meg and i have a really exciting AU art/fic collaboration planned, so stay tuned for that! you can find me on twitter @maccachino, and i also have a tumblr i mostly never use anymore which is wincechesters.tumblr.com.
> 
> <3


End file.
